True Harvest

by Linda Cardillo

  “Don’t worry. Speaking as a daughter, I can assure you she will forgive you.”

  The glasses were empty. The notebook was full. It was 1 a.m.

  “I should help you wash up before I head back to the campground.” He rose and began to place the glasses on the tray.

  “I’m concerned about you cycling back at this late hour, and I’ve had too much wine to drive you back. Why don’t you sleep here? I can make a bed for you on the couch in the office.”

  “No, it’s too much trouble. I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. If you don’t stay, I will worry all night about your safety. Would you start the washing up while I can get the bedding?”

  Marielle left before he could protest again and tiptoed up to her room to retrieve pillows and a duvet from her trunk. By the time she had made up a bed for him he was placing the last glass on the drying rack.

  She handed him a towel and a bar of soap and pointed out the bathroom.

  “I’ll have a mug of coffee waiting for you in the kitchen at 5 am. Sleep well. And thank you.”

  Tomas watched as she turned and walked up the stairs, notebook tucked under her arm. It had been a long time since he had revealed so much of himself. He wasn’t sure if it had been the wine or the vulnerable young woman whose memories had released his own.

  Chapter 5

  A few days later, Marielle experienced a far different form of Tomas’s help. A rainstorm rose quickly in the vineyard late in the afternoon, an isolated squall that came with little warning, black clouds looming over the mountains carrying a disastrous cargo of water and wind. Because their backs were turned away from the mountains and the sky across the river to the south was still a luminous blue, the harvest crew didn’t sense the storm till it was upon them. Huge drops of rain fell first, splattering across heads and hands, shaking the broad leaves, sending the birds on the hillside into scattered flight.

  Normally, rain didn’t deter the pickers. Although uncomfortable, they continued on, sometimes at a slower pace as shears became slippery or visibility blurred. But Janosch, emptying a load of grapes into the wagon, saw the ominous blackness descending and yelled in warning to Marielle and the rest of the crew. A bolt of lightning arced down into the trees above them. He threw a canvas tarp over the wagon and secured it with rope just as the deluge began.

  Marielle called the others away from the vines and most of them withdrew to huddle under the long flaps of the canvas. Tadeusz, on the eastern side of the row, motioned that he would finish his side, with only a few meters to go, Marielle nodded an okay.

  She watched in dismay as the rain pelted the fragile fruit, unsure how much of it would withstand the downpour. The rain was so heavy that it had already cut into the isles between the vines, forming streams of mud and stones that poured down the hillside.

  Suddenly, a swath of churning water came rushing toward them from above, bringing with it the debris of the hillside to the north—broken vines, rocks the size of a man’s head, a pair of rusted and forgotten shears, a glove.

  “The creek that runs across the field must have overrun its banks,” Janosch shouted to her over the din of the hammering rain.

  Their location, huddled around the wagon, placed them just beyond the reach of the rising water that was gathering momentum as it raced down the hillside. Except for Tadeusz, who couldn’t hear their shouts and didn’t see the water until it was at his knees.

  The others watched in horror as the water lifted him, carrying him away as if he were a leaf and not a 150-pound man. He grabbed hold of a branch but the force of the water was so strong that it ripped the whole vine out of the earth with its root intact and swept them both farther down the hillside. Marielle saw the fear in Tadeusz’s eyes as the water turned him on his back and he disappeared over the next drop in the hill.

  Tomas and Matthias bolted from the shelter of the wagon, parallel to the destructive channel formed by the roiling water. They found Tadeusz unconscious; his body halted by an outcropping of rock. They managed to pull him away from the rising water to soggy but safer ground. Marielle her fears for her grapes now replaced by concern for Tadeusz, ran to meet them.

  Tomas was bent over Tadeusz’s limp body, breathing into his mouth, then beginning chest compressions. He worked silently and confidently, undeterred by the blood streaming from Tadeusz’s forehead where he’d been battered by the rocks.

  Marielle stood back with Matthias, sheets of rain drenching her, as Tomas continued. When he saw her, he asked her to protect Tadeusz’s head from the rain. She stripped off her waterproof anorak and held it over him, keeping the water away from his face. Tomas worked tirelessly, his movements purposeful and focused, alternating between compressions and breathing.

  Finally, Tadeusz coughed, his chest heaving, and Tomas rolled him onto his side as muddy water was expelled from his mouth. With Tadeusz breathing on his own, Tomas carefully checked him for bruises. It was then that he and Marielle saw the oddly twisted orientation of his left leg.

  “The impact of being thrown against the rock must have broken it,” he said. He shouted to Matthias, “Can you find me something to use as a splint?”

  Matthias returned with a discarded post that looked long enough and strong enough for Tomas’s purpose. Marielle took the cotton scarf from around her neck and tore it into strips. At Tomas’s direction, she held Tadeusz’s head in her lap.

  “Hold him down if you can. This is going to be excruciatingly painful for him.”

  With deft, sure hands, Tomas aligned the broken leg and bound it to the splint.

  “That should prevent further damage until we can get him off the hillside.

  The rain continued unabated. Marielle was reluctant to risk another life by sending someone down to the lower ground to obtain help and decided to wait out the storm. From her vantage point, she could see that the village square had been flooded by the overflowing creek. Flashes from fire engines and rescue vehicles indicated that the danger and destruction had not been confined to the vineyards.

  Marielle and Tomas were soaked to the skin. Tomas had removed his coat to cover Tadeusz to conserve his body temperature. He held Tadeusz’s hand, occasionally checking his pulse, and spoke to him in calming tones. Marielle stroked his head, which she still supported in her lap. Although the color had drained from his face and it was creased in pain, he was conscious and breathing.

  Tomas looked across at Marielle and nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank you. You saved his life.”

  As the rain finally subsided, Marielle saw headlights climbing the hill and realized it was Anita in the station wagon. She brought with her the news that two people had drowned, trapped in a basement apartment. A pregnant woman and her little girl had been swept through the village in their Volkswagen, but had managed to escape when the car collided with a streetlight in the square.

  After Anita’s arrival, the improvised a stretcher and carried Tadeusz to the car. Tomas rode with him to the hospital in Eltville, and Marielle turned to her rain-soaked, debris-strewn land. She sent the crew down with the wagon to the winery when she could see that the water below had receded, but stayed on the hillside by herself to assess how much she had lost.

  She trekked across the fields, counting up the damaged rows, holding back her fear. The destruction was limited to the single field where they had been working that afternoon, a result of the path taken by the unleashed creek. Although the crew would need to spend a day or two at the end of the harvest in clean up, most of the grapes still on the vine had been spared. She was grateful for that, but more grateful for the life spared that afternoon and for Tomas’s presence on the hillside—and in her life.

  Chapter 6

  After the storm, Marielle’s confidence grew as she tackled the remaining days of the harvest. The yield promised to be higher than she anticipated. The weather held and only the small acreage near the h
ouse was left when the first frost settled on the valley. The crew had the vines picked clean before the sun began to warm the earth—perfect conditions for ice wine. Although she still had much ahead of her before the success of the vintage would be apparent, Marielle no longer felt out of control or terrorized by what she didn’t know.

  The morning of November 11 dawned crisp and clear. It was Martinstag, the feast of St. Martin. The winery planned to open its doors that evening for a small celebration after the traditional parade and bonfire in the village. Around four in the afternoon, just before sunset, Joseph Krechel, one of the tallest men in the village and a fireman, donned the costume of a Roman centurion, complete with plumed helmet, polished breastplate and red cape. He mounted Ralf Schmid’s white stallion, whose bridle was decorated as lavishly as Joseph himself, and horse and rider arrived in the square in front of the church. A hundred children from the kindergarten and the elementary school waited impatiently with their parents, decorated lanterns hanging from long sticks swinging restlessly in their small hands. As soon as Joseph took his place at the head of the line the firemen’s band brought their horns to their lips and began to play. Parents lit the lanterns and the procession moved forward, the horse prancing and the children singing about the unselfish St. Martin, who cut his cloak into two pieces and gave one to a freezing beggar.

  All along the route of the procession townspeople watched, some joining in the singing and walking along with the children. By darkness they had arrived at an open field at the edge of the village where the fire brigade had built a towering pile of scrap wood and roped it off. The children formed a circle around the wood. Joseph dismounted, removed his red cloak and draped it over Gregor Sperling, who had played the beggar with great gusto every year since he had graduated from high school. Then Joseph took a torch from a waiting colleague and lit the wood.

  To the excitement of the children, the fire rose quickly through the towering pile. Ute Meyer began moving around the outer circle, distributing her large, doughy pretzels encrusted with salt crystals.

  Marielle had not attended the St. Martin’s Fire since she had left the village. It wasn’t a tradition that adapted well to a dense urban environment like Frankfurt. She had walked down to the field with the procession when it had passed by the winery and she stood now, pulling apart one of Ute’s pretzels as the flames crackled and shot into the air.

  Tomas had been leaving Gruber’s Appliance Store where he had spent some of his harvest earnings on a toaster and a Bosch coffeemaker for his mother. He saw the bobbing lanterns of the children turn the corner at the end of the square and felt a pang for Magdalena. She had made a lantern for today as well, decorated with leaf rubbings, his mother had written him in her last letter. He decided to follow the procession for a short distance, sharing in his daughter’s experience a thousand kilometers away.

  When he got to the bonfire, he saw Marielle across the clearing and watched her face in the firelight. He saw both exhaustion and tenacity reflected in her expression. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders instead of in the severe braid she had worn throughout the harvest. He had considered her attractive before, but in a conventional way. Tonight, however, watching her in an unguarded moment, singing with the children, he was touched by her vulnerability and openness. She looked beautiful to him. An unexpected wave of tenderness washed over him as he stood on the periphery of the circle. Her circle. Her life. Not his, he reminded himself, and turned away with his shopping bags.

  The next morning, their campers stowed with Miele washing machines and other West German goods purchased with some of the Deutsch Marks they had earned, the Polish crew made ready to depart from the campground. As Tomas and Janosch made final preparations, Marielle pulled into the clearing and jumped out of the car. She had two packages in her arms and breathlessly approached the two men.

  “I was worried that you had already left,” she murmured. “I had these for you last night, but you didn’t come by.” She tried not to sound plaintive, but her voice was tinged with disappointment and internally she winced at her own neediness.

  “I wanted to say thank you, to both of you.”

  She handed Janosch the larger bundle. “My mother told me of your fondness for hazelnuts. I hope you enjoy this.”

  To Tomas she held out a flat package about the size of a book.

  “On Sundays I did some painting. I’ve noticed how you gazed out over the valley during breaks and I thought you might like this small memento.”

  Tomas unwrapped the package and held up a watercolor of the scene that had surrounded him for the last six weeks.

  “Thank you.” He took Marielle’s hand and shook it. “Goodbye. My best wishes to your parents.”

  Marielle stood in the middle of the campground as the crew formed a caravan and headed out onto the highway. She stared after the gray ribbon of ancient vehicles until it was out of sight.

  Chapter 7

  On January 5 Max died in his sleep. He had enjoyed the Christmas holidays with Anita and Marielle and had watched the fireworks on New Year’s Eve from the upstairs parlor windows that looked out over the river. It had been too cold to take him to the top of the hillside where he and Marielle had always watched when she had been a girl.

  Anita came to wake Marielle. She was still in her robe and slippers and Marielle knew immediately something had happened. It was unlike Anita not to be dressed for the day well before Marielle ventured from her bed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked her mother as Anita gently called her name.

  “Papa is gone.” And she took Marielle in her arms.

  After the funeral Marielle helped Anita to sort and answer the condolences that had flooded into the winery as news of Max’s death had spread. In the stack of envelopes that had not yet been opened she found one with a Polish stamp, addressed to her. She reacted with a sharp physical pain in her chest as if she’d been startled by a loud noise in the middle of the night. She put the envelope aside to open later in the privacy of her room.

  The paper was a thin, cheaply made sheet the color of dirty dishwater and the words had been formed with a ballpoint pen that skipped occasionally. But as she read the words, she saw Tomas’s long fingers moving across the page and heard his voice as if they were sitting in the winery late at night. His letter was tender and thoughtful, remembering how much Marielle had loved Max and calling to mind the images she had described the night she drank too much.

  “You hold much of your father within yourself. Don’t forget that as you mourn him, because he lives on in you. He was a fortunate man to have a daughter like you, Marielle, and I know he loved you.”

  For the first time since the morning Max died Marielle cried, trying not to spill her tears on the fragile paper for fear it would disintegrate. That Tomas understood her loss and the special nature of her connection to her father touched her deeply. His empathy spoke to what Marielle believed must be his relationship to his own daughter. But it took her breath away that he understood the guilt she felt in not being the natural vintner Max had been. Throughout the fall she had berated herself for not paying more attention when she had been younger, for not being present for so much of her adult life. When she had left home for university and the wider world, she wondered if Max had ever regretted her going or felt that she had turned her back on him. She questioned if Max had even been aware that she had taken on his responsibilities in those last months.

  As these thoughts overwhelmed her, her body was engulfed in sobs—both for her father and for the man in Warsaw who was offering her hope and forgiveness.

  The next morning, she woke at dawn to Tomas’s letter on her night table and sat in her nightgown at her desk to answer him. She expressed her gratitude for his understanding and for the kindness he had shown Max during the harvest. She reminded him of the joy she had seen on Max’s face the night Tomas had played the piano for him. She didn’t trust herself to write of the depth of her ow
n feelings when she had read Tomas’s note. She didn’t reveal to him how deeply he had touched her and how much he had seen into her soul.

  Later that morning she added her letter to the stack of acknowledgments she had written for Anita and took them to the post office. And then she waited, not conscious that she was keeping track in her mind of the days it would take for the post to reach Warsaw, be delivered and read by Tomas, allow him to respond and then for the response to travel back to her. That she was waiting for a reply seemed foolish to her—ridiculous to want something so unattainable. He had probably written merely out of courtesy and by accident had found the words that spoke so directly to her. He had no intention, she was sure, of continuing the correspondence. When two weeks had passed without a reply, she acknowledged that her expectations had indeed been unrealistic, and she was relieved that she had been restrained in her reply to him.

  She tried to put him out of her mind.

  She threw herself into the winter rhythm of the winery—preparations for the bottling of the harvest, calls to customers confirming their orders, plans to schedule the concerts and performances that took place every summer in the courtyard, equipment maintenance that needed to be done. She was in the office on the morning of February 14 when she heard the doorbell. Anita had gone to do the marketing so Marielle answered the door. Maria Marangoudakis, a Greek immigrant who ran the florist shop in the railroad station, stood on the stoop with an elaborately wrapped bouquet.

  “It’s for you Marielle—not a late funeral arrangement. The request came by wire from Warsaw.”